Tokyo Cancelled. Rana Dasgupta
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around fires on the steps to the buildings around Trafalgar Square while the entire piazza was filled, only the column protruding from a writhing, harlequinesque sea of baubles and crystals.
Weeks passed. For five whole days only memories of war fell from the skies. No daylight could penetrate the clouds of terrifying leaden forms that rained down on London, and only streaks of fire gave any illumination. It was now rare to see any people at all. They hid, clung like babies to anything that seemed familiar.
Thomas’s wanderings led him to the Thames. Rains had carried streams of memories down into the river until they filled the riverbed entirely, rising above the water to enormous mounds of multicoloured sludge. Its course was completely blocked; the water flooded out, rising above the bridges and submerging the quays. Tourist boats lay wrecked on the terraces outside the Festival Hall and everywhere was the stench of rotting fish. Dogs chewed at carcasses at the edge of the water; flocks of gulls perched on the huge misshapen islands that looked like waste from a sweet factory.
As he looked out over the river he realized that all these millions of memories had begun to whisper to him. He heard voices from every place and time talking in every language about terrible and wonderful and everyday things. He had the impression that all the memories had been cast out, that they burned with the ferocity of a dying parasite searching for a host. They stalked him, would not leave him alone, seemed to be speaking right up against his ear, called him by name. He tried to flee, but more and more of them billowed up, following him in a quivering line. Memories flowed out of everywhere until the trail was like a canopy over the city. And then, with a shriek from the depths of time, they rose up in one vast motion, descended on him, and buried themselves in his soul. It was like a gigantic explosion converging on its centre in a film run backwards. At that point, he passed out.
The predictions of Memory Mine executives turned out to be correct. There came a point in time when people lost their memories on a mass scale. They were unable to remember even the most basic outlines of the past–their own or anyone else’s–and could therefore not engage in normal human interactions. They began to be withdrawn and suspicious, and the public spaces of the city became empty and eerie. This phenomenon was accompanied by–or caused–a major economic recession; and the two blights swept entire continents hand in hand.
Memory Mine was well prepared. Under its new name, MyPastTM, its advertisements suddenly flooded the media and the city. An elderly couple hugged each other affectionately as they played their MyPastTM CD-ROM and remembered more youthful times. A grumpy businessman played the CD at work, saw himself as a young man laughing in a group at college, and was driven to make phone calls to friends he had not seen in years–bringing the smile back to his face. Despite the economic slowdown, the product was an instant hit. People sensed great relief at seeing evidence of their own past, and though for many this ‘quick fix’ actually worsened their psychiatric condition, nothing could prevent people rushing to buy editions for everyone in their household in order to try and re-experience the familial bond that was supposed to link them.
While most people were suffering from total amnesia, Thomas seemed to bear the burden of an excess of memory. He appeared haunted, and wandered the streets slowly and gingerly, as if afraid of upsetting an intricate balance in his head. His mind was crammed full like the hold of a cargo ship, containers packed in to every inch of space, every one roasting in the airless heat below deck, and heavy with a million whispers that each tried to rise above all the others. He could take in no more thought or experience of any kind and avoided all human contact.
He was aware, of course, of what was happening to the people around him. He tried to call his parents on a couple of occasions to see if they were all right–but there was no answer. He could not face the flood of memories that might be released if he went home, so he did not.
He ended up one day back at the office in Hackney. He had nothing to do there, but it was a place to go that had a connection, however strange, to this thing that had overtaken everyone and it exerted a pull over him.
It was very different now. The huge empty space of the office had been entirely filled with lines of desks, where incessantly ringing phones were answered by clean young people with their efficient ‘Good morning, MyPastTM, how can I help you?’ People ordered memories for themselves and their friends and families; they were located immediately on the database and burned straight onto CDs; the printer spat out attractive labels and pockets with pictures of happy families and a personalized message. The CDs were stacked in big plastic bins and dispatched twice a day.
Thomas sat in a corner, preoccupied and detached. He went there every day, and Jo did not try to stop him. She may have felt slightly responsible for his state of mind. People got used to him being there. Sometimes he lay down and spent the night under a desk. The murmurings in his head kept him haggard and silent.
Those forgetful times, while they remained, were terrible, even if few could remember them afterwards. But they did not last.
One day Thomas awoke and felt that his mind was lighter. It was as if a thick splinter that had been lying buried in his brain for months was now removed. The voices diminished. He could look outwards again at the world without feeling that the incoming information would make him explode.
The memories were departing.
Very slowly, the city started to be populated again. People’s faces regained their depth, and they started to talk to each other. They could remember more and more.
Frantic phone calls raced between the MyPastTM offices in London and Washington. They had assumed that their graphs of diminishing memory horizons only moved in one direction and had never accounted for this sudden upswing. Very soon sales had dropped alomost to zero; the workforce was sacked en masse. The office in Hackney became almost deserted again. Even Jo did not bother to turn up. Thomas spent days there without seeing anyone.
One evening the phone rang. Thomas picked it up.
‘Is this MyPastTM?’
‘Yes.’
‘I need memories. Everyone else’s memories seem to be returning. But my mind is still empty. I can’t do anything. Can’t work, can’t sleep. I need my memories.’
Thomas realized with a shock that it was his father on the phone.
‘I think I can help you, sir.’
‘How long does it take?’
‘I can send them out to you tomorrow. You should get them on Monday morning.’
‘Where are you? Can I come over myself and pick them up?’
‘You could. We are in Hackney.’
‘OK. What’s the address?’
Thomas told him.
‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’
Thomas logged in to the MyPastTM database. He entered his father’s name and searched. There were nearly a thousand memories. He saved them onto a CD and printed out a label. He decided to go down to the street to wait.
His father came with his two brothers. Thomas watched them approach from a distance. They all looked strangely diminished. His father had lost his poise and sophistication and walked wild-eyed and hunted, and his brothers scuttled close to him for safety. They drew close without any sign of recognition.
‘MyPastTM?’ asked his father aggressively.
‘Yes,’ replied Thomas.
‘Where are they? My memories?’
Thomas led them inside and they crammed into the tiny lift. His father breathed heavily and he twitched with impatience, but somehow it felt good to Thomas to touch him again. They arrived at the sixth floor. Brightly coloured MyPastTM signs announced their arrival.
‘I need this quickly. Right now. Where is it?’
Thomas picked up the CD from the desk. ‘Here it is. You can see it has your name on it here and today’s date. I’ll